


I will kiss beside the postscript

by campholmes



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/M, Katya owns an elegant borzoi, Love Letters, Trans Katya, Weimar Republic AU, and Brian is so in love with her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campholmes/pseuds/campholmes
Summary: “He didn’t move his hands from her steaming hot waist, her sweaty silk dress. He couldn’t, she smelled like woman, like sweat and cigarettes and swaths upon swaths of expensive perfume, like money and something Brian was desperate to swallow up, to take into his mouth. She was still right in front of his face, inhaling comically so that her cheeks hollowed dramatically-dramatic, all of her- so that her red lips pushed out around the white paper.”Katya is an eccentric Russian party girl with an affinity for expensive perfume in large quantities and her loyal pet borzoi, Vladimir. Brian is a lowly admirer who sits up late into the night and waxes poetic over her in endless, anonymous love letters. A Weimar Republic AU.





	I will kiss beside the postscript

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here's this. It's a bit of a diversion, as Our Lady of Sorrows was, from my normal sort of thing, but posting OLoS and getting positive feedback propelled me to finish and publish this. Much of this could probably be historically inaccurate, message me about it and I'll ignore the hell out of you ;). It's a mixture of modern day lingo and whatever I wanted to pretend the 20s sounded like, plus a whole lot of flowery prose. I hope that you enjoy!
> 
> This one is first & foremost for my friends. Thank you so much for always encouraging me :-) I always write for you, most of all. 
> 
> This started as some kind of fucked love letter to Katya where I attempted to put into words how much I feel for her, and ended up with a storyline. It's gained new meanings and significance with time. They say that the author is dead, but the context of the story hardly ever is!
> 
> The borzoi is named after Lenin, not Putin. Katya is a commie, and it's hardly my fault that there are roughly seven Russian names.
> 
> Passages in italics are the letters that Brian sends to Katya anonymously.

_My darling,_

Brian strikes it out. Sighs, puts fountain pen to paper again. 

_Dearest Katya,_

Too attached. He’s known her for a night, one single night. He’s spoken to her for the grand span of three hours, in total, and she was three sheets to the wind for two of them. She can’t remember him. She won’t remember him.

But does it matter, if she remembers him? He will remain anonymous, write her and tell her everything, absolutely _everything_ , tell her about her, what she looks like, what she sounds like, her crackling voice and slinky dress and her _pantyhose_ , her heels, her tiny feet inside of them. He will not reveal himself- three hours is much too short of a time span to fall deeply in love. She would despise him. He wants to keep her intrigued, wants to keep her reading for as long as it takes for him to tell her everything.

There’s no need to send it, even, he could hold onto it forever and simply die with it and it’s siblings (because there will be more, so long as Katya continues to live and torment him) locked away, for someone to find in the distant future, for someone to cry over, or laugh at.

But oh, he wishes to send them. He dreams of showering her in love notes, more than she could possibly ever have the time to read.

_Darling,_

_When I first saw you I knew that you were going to place yourself, either physically or metaphorically, on my lap, on my suit, your silk dress cool with the ice of winter. I knew that you were going to tuck your hair behind one ear so I could see the curves of it, how it was turning red in the winter cold, how all of your skin, miles and miles of it, stretched over muscles and skinny, bare legs, to touch my hands, was beautifully pale, cool, soft._

_And how I wanted, more than life itself, to touch you in every place. Every inch of you, I wanted, and still want, need, to touch, and kiss, and hold. And it’s hardly my usual way of going about things- I don’t think of women how I think of you, I don’t dream of women how I dreamed of you last night, your hands on my cheeks, your long, filed, bare nails, your blood red lips, I’ve never dreamed so vividly and so drunkenly of a woman, and when I’ve dreamed of men they’ve never been as beautiful, as captivating, as worthy of my love and endless devotion as you are._

_I am now, in this letter that I will kiss beside the postscript, devoting myself to you. You certainly do not know who I am. I am pleased at that, because I am convinced that you seem to be the kind of woman that wants a far-away admiration, a lover that she can paste any face on, someone that does not nag her and ask questions of her and beg her for physical contact, spent time. It is an honor to have you reading my letter, and I hope that you devote time to reading any others I may send in the future. It is all I ask, and you are welcome to refuse. I would be honored all the same._

_With all of my love._

She had sat down hard in his lap, without him noticing her above him at first. She had sat down right on him, had wiggled herself down further, had kept the two lit cigarettes in her mouth and took his hands from where they had lifted from the table in confusion to wrap them tight around her dainty waist.

“Do I smell like woman?” She had gotten all up in his face, over the loud music. Her cigarettes had been so close to burning him, to singing his skin. She was talking around them, yelling around them to make sure he could hear her question, posed rhetorically.

“ _Ja, ja_ ,” Brian had breathed back. Her lipstick was stained up and down the cigarettes, like she had borderline swallowed them, lips dangerously close to fire. He didn’t move his hands from her steaming hot waist, her sweaty silk dress. He couldn’t, she smelled like woman, like sweat and cigarettes and swaths upon swaths of expensive perfume, like money and something Brian was desperate to swallow up, to take into his mouth. She was still right in front of his face, inhaling comically so that her cheeks hollowed dramatically- _dramatic_ , all of her- so that her red lips pushed out around the white paper. 

“Are you going to fuck me, you want to watch me dance? Come dance,” she had yelled, mumbled, whatever she wished. Brian was covered in goosebumps, the chandeliers were swinging with the music and his heart was swinging with them, with the lines of fringe along the neckline of her dress, the _neckline_ , so deep, and all of her pale skin right in front of his eyes, a tiny curve of stomach cut off by the tight line of underclothes, brassiere strap falling down a shoulder with the thin, jeweled strap of her dress.

She stood, pulling him with her because he couldn’t keep his hands off of her body, dug around in his breast pocket, long nails around his handkerchief, slipped a cigarette out of the pack nestled inside, settled it into the right corner of her mouth, astride the other two. 

“Light me, darling, light me,” around her teeth, big, white, bright teeth. His fingers were still on her sweaty hips but he pulled them away, unstuck them, wrestled with his pants pocket to pull out his silver lighter, flicked it open to watch the flame light her face.

_My Dearest,_

_You are too beautiful for me to be able to understand it. I want to absolutely fuck you, I want to hold your thighs in my hands and pull you towards me, I want to put my mouth on your stomach. Never in my life have I seen a woman that glows like you-_

Somehow, she encourages him to a table and he sits with her. His feet are grateful, he can’t imagine how hers must ache in her sharp heels. He notices a thin piece of dog fur attached to the strap of her dress, and he pulls it off gently. She giggles. She seems to be more sober, and he relishes in the way her eyes have cleared. They are dark green in the dim, and he can’t help himself from tracing some of the fine lines around them with his finger.

She wraps a finger around his own, guides his shaking hand to her mouth, presses her bright red, spread lips into a smile, and then down on his knuckles. She leaves a mark, one that is wiped off by another clubgoer in the time he decides to exit and the time he crosses the threshold. 

“Katya,” she says. He has seen her before, here, but he has never spoken to her. She moves as if she’s in water. Her hands flop all over the place gracefully, and her hair twists outwards as the night goes on like a halo.

“Brian,” he replies, and she nods knowingly. His stomach clenches at the thought of her knowing him, of becoming acquainted with him previously. He thinks that she owns this place, or that she lives here. She engages him in winding, shameless conversation for the rest of the night.

_I do not need to touch you to know how I love you. You make me dizzy. The night I met you, I stumbled home and took as much asprin as I could without combusting, simply to quiet my head and it’s pounding. God, I love you._

“Brian, aren’t you a disaster,” Katya growls. She’s perched in her armchair, beneath the Tiffany lamp, neverending cigarette holder slipped between two fingers. He swallows, laughs, and she laughs right along, smoke spilling from her lips like a cartoon. The lanky hound sits beside her in complete silence, unmoving but for when it yawns lazily every few minutes. It didn’t move when Brian arrived, and he doubts that it will move until Katya asks it to. The dog is lazy and decadent, much like it’s owner, and Brian’s head is pounding at the picture the two of them make together.

The dog matches her, her long face and sharp mouth, her flimsy white dress that barely covers her body, the curls of her hair and how they migrate away from her cheekbones. She replaces the cigarette with another once she’s smoked it all, lights it lazily with her red nails flashing in the dim light.

The chandelier over the dining room table sparkles across the deep green walls, the refracted light shines across her face every few moments.

Brian is sitting on her loveseat. It’s a light green velvet, and he keeps running his hands across the armrest nervously as she watches him. She’s shrouded in half-darkness, and he continues to sip at his wine, attempting to not seem as if he’s drinking too much or too quickly. She swallows her vodka at record speed between drags, holds out her empty hand for the dog to kiss. She reaches to scratch it’s ears, and Brian feels as if no one else has seen this side of Katya. She seems secretive, she seems to live at the club, up in the rafters amongst the chandeliers and streamers. 

But she’s invited him to her dim apartment, that she shares with her massive Russian animal, and it’s decadent and cozy. She has furs draped across the back of the loveseat, he’s seen her wear them every once in a while. He wonders if she knows that he watches her. He’s certain that she doesn’t know about the letters.

“You’re awfully handsome, _liebchen_ ,” Katya whispers. Brian doesn’t know if she’s speaking to him or the dog, but then her bright ocean eyes lock with his and he shivers visibly. She laughs, a loud, long wheeze of air that suits her, oddly enough, and the dog’s ears perk up. “Shhh, now.”

She pets the animal’s head until it closes it’s eyes. Brian watches her long hand run across the white fur, her shiny red nails get lost amongst it. Her pale skin matches the dog so closely. Brian downs the rest of his wine, and Katya lights her next cigarette.

“You want to fuck me?” Katya snaps, and Brian almost crushes the empty glass in his hand. He can feel his blush flare, along with his rapid heartbeat, as Katya smirks at him. The dog stands, prances across the room to it’s bed, where it curls into a tight circle and closes it’s eyes. Katya stands after it, paces to Brian and holds out her hand. “You want to make love? Right now.”

_For the Loveliest Woman,_

_I dream of you touching me daily. Your nails have been painted red, and your lips are painted to match them, and I want those fingers across my body, holding my cock gently, leading me towards you to kiss it, lick over me with your flat tongue. Is it odd that I’ve memorized the shape of your tongue? Sometimes it sticks out when you’re placing cigarettes between your lips. I imagine that it soaks the paper, and that the paper flakes off on your lips because of it. I would love to swallow it down._

_When your tongue makes words, when you yell over music and point to your friends, when you mouth your thanks to the bartender and grasp your drink in one hand, I want more than anything to be able to kiss you, to swallow you up and unlace your dress down the back and kiss all up your spine. You would like me to be filthy, I know it. I long to be filthy with you. I would be honored, humbled, to be able to drink you down and suck you up, to rest our tongues together and to stuff my nose in your armpit, smell you as close as I possibly can._

_You are too beautiful for me, and that is all right. All I have ever wanted is to be able to see you, to watch you and gaze across your body, your bare feet when you are sitting at a table, pulling someone close and tapping the tops of their shoes with your toes. You’ve painted your toenails red, too. I would be lucky to kiss them._

_I adore you._

“Because I would love to fuck you, Brian. I want to kiss you and make you finish,” Katya says. Brian wipes his sweaty hand on his pant leg and takes Katya’s, allows her to twist her fingers around his. 

“Yes,” he says, and her strong arm is flexing pulling him up, her veins bulging. He cups her elbow with the hand she isn’t occupying and brings her bicep close to his face, runs his open lips and hot breath up her thick vein. She gasps, her fingers clench around his even tighter.

Her hips sway as she walks him through the apartment, the silk at her waist rippling like the sea. Brian is immediately reminded of trips he would take with school to the shore, as a child. He would gather up white shells, nearly as pale and opalescent as Katya’s skin, but not as beautiful. Everything about her is whirled in the natural world. She was created in the Russian forest, twirled up in pine needles and sprigs of grass the color of her eyes. Her small freckles beneath her cheekbones are flecks of dirt, bits of sand that would stick in his hair so many years ago, at the beach.

Her bare feet pad across the hardwood as she leads him down the tiny hallway to her bedroom. He wants to grip her dainty ankle, to twist her around and lead the top of her foot to his mouth, kiss it as if she were a princess, and her bony foot her hand. 

Her bedroom has the same deep green walls, and he wonders if it becomes awfully claustrophobic. He catalogues everything without thinking, the chest of drawers that hang open in the corner, silks and laces falling out precariously, with piles of sparkling jewelry resting on top. She has a bottle of wine since drunk with a wilting rose resting inside, on the windowsill. She turns to him, her makeup cracking around her nose and at the corners of her eyes, her blush peeking through more than it’s painted on. Her smile keeps growing, and his heart is beating faster than it ever has before.

She jumps onto her silk sheets, splays her legs out wide so that her dress rides up sinfully. His mouth waters, and she pats the bed between her knees playfully, slaps the silk so that it leaves a print of her hand, indented. 

“Touch me, come on,” she taunts, digs a sharp nail underneath his chin and hooks it towards her. Her lips brush his before he can try to do it himself. “I want to be a bad girl for you. Make me loud.”

He groans, he can see her dick dripping against the thin material of her dress. He wants to rub his face across it, but she takes a minute to kiss him with her smokey mouth. Her tongue is steaming hot, her teeth are sharp and big and settled in her gums in such a way, so smoothly, that Brian’s eyes cross. 

She puts two pointer fingers on his eyelids, and her fingerprints are cool against his heated flesh. He feels as if he’s blushing across his entire body. It’s as if he’s hanging off a precipice- the mountains he had seen in Italy after graduation, drunk on wine and linking arms tightly with his school friends. He hasn’t seen them in the years since, but he does remember that feeling, the roiling of his gut in seeing the drop off almost beneath his feet, the lurch of his heart as he leaned forward, jumped back.

But he leans forward, into Katya’s perfume. It’s making his eyes water, she has so much of it sprayed on, the entire apartment smells of it and he smells of it, too, now. He’ll leave when she asks him to, and he’ll shower but it won’t disappear from the inside of his nose. He hopes so desperately.

“You let me sit on your lap, you liked that, at the party. I was so drunk!” She’s pulled back from his kisses, her red lips smeared down her chin. She twists up, his hands holding her gently around the little curve of her waist. Her shoulders are so much wider than her tiny middle, and it pulls at his stomach. The dress crumples beneath his fingers and she breathes deeply, in and out. He drops his face onto her shoulder, nose against her neck, and kisses her a million times there, on the lines of her chin.

She continues to giggle absentmindedly, as if he is amusing her greatly, and it only serves to make him harder, for him to lift her up in one hand, the crook of his elbow, and carry her to the pillow, settle her on top of him. She’s wet, instantly soaks through her flimsy silk dress and through his pant leg, and he groans against her cheek, right on the edge of her mouth.

“You are soaking wet,” he whispers. She giggles again, and her hips jerk down onto his thigh. He can feel all of her against him. He slips a hand to grip her ass so that she gasps, her slim fingers pinching him all down his dress shirt to reach his belt buckle. He bunches her dress up in his fingers and stuffs it between her cheeks, and she squeals, clenches beneath his fingers. Her bare ass is warm, where her fingers are freezing on his stomach, pulling on the hair there. Her face is so close to his that the urge to kiss her is painful, but her eyes are so wide and so deep green that he couldn’t bear it, wouldn’t be able to stand losing the view of a freckle on her right cheekbone and every last eyelash.

He does it anyways, once to comfort himself and stop her incessant giggling. She only laughs harder, and then she’s disappeared from him and her fingers are digging into his hips, pulling his pants down and off, his underwear with them, his socks. She folds them and sets them on the chair, stands watching him half naked, hand on his cock, for a second.

She crosses her arms and he grunts at the sight of her: her dick hard beneath her dress with a wet spot across her lap, her bare legs and feet and her heavy bangs flying upwards, the curls of her hair tangled up around the crown of her head. 

_To My Dearest Dream:_

_You are unreal. Seeing you in any capacity is enough to make me weep, hearing your voice causes my heart to beat immediately out of my chest: I miss you terribly. Please, tell me that someday, we may have a tiny cottage in Italy, or on the Seine, on the ocean, so that I can see it reflected in your eyes every day. I’d wager my fortune, my life’s savings on the fact that you must blossom awfully beautifully in the sunshine. You are so blonde, I imagine that your skin must glow, that your nose will dot with delicious freckles, that the curves of your arms will be warm and enveloping. I miss you more than anything._

_I will see you soon enough, a night when I am free to meet you, to watch you from afar or to buy you your favorite drink. I am becoming ever so weary writing you with no expectation or opportunity for reply. Every single day when I awaken, I imagine that I will write you and tell you my name. But I decide against it, for fear that you might despise me if you knew. I could not bear it. I am afraid of you knowing._

_And I rather like the idea that you read these letters and hear all of the most beautiful things about yourself. It seems right, for me to remain anonymous. Because, darling, how I do love you._

Katya rings him up at the same time every Monday, probing him to visit her home. She illustrates long excuses, _Vladimir is woeful, misses you_ , or, _I need you to reach my chandelier and twist a crystal_. He never rejects her, shamelessly cancels plans until he realizes that they have a standing date, Mondays in the early afternoons.

The first night she asks him to stay, he is wrapping her loosely in his arms beneath her silk sheets. Her chest is sticky against his own, and he drops his head below the covers to lick across it, to feel the bumps and softness of her skin under his tongue. Her breath grows and releases, and his knees ache from praying at her feet. 

“ _Liebchen_ , let’s just go to sleep, now. I don’t want to sit up. Come up out of there-” she is always pleading him, requesting that he listen, that he do her bidding. She seems not to know that he would gladly anticipate all of it, if he were only all-knowing. 

As he resurfaces, her eyes soften greatly, more than he has ever seen them do before. “Handsome.”

He knows that he is blushing, and her hands cup his cheeks, settle him against the pillow so that she can stick her head beneath his chin. Her hand runs across his bare chest as he falls asleep.

In her cool bed the following morning, she is lying sprawled over the sheets as he wakes, her knees bent and her thighs wide open. Her cock is beautiful, red and dripping, tight against her rippling stomach with arousal, the muscles there straining as she breathes deeply, waiting for him. 

“Oh,” he breathes in what she hopefully sees as amazement, what she hopefully recognizes as something so much more than her standing date for Mondays. She has a new, expensive perfume on the bedside table, but his watch is draped over it. She has a pair of his underwear washed for him in anticipation, if he ever should need them. She’s darling, unexpected, and tears drip from the corners of her eyes onto the pillow as his palm slowly presses against her dick.

“Brian, dear,” her voice cracks as she begs him. It’s fallen into summertime, the birds chirping loudly out the open window. Brian thinks that he can hear Vladimir scratching at the door, and is duly impressed that Katya is even considering getting off before feeding her precious dog. It gives him a rush of fluttering throughout his chest, and he brings his lips gently to kiss her, swallow her.

Her blonde lashes are sticking together with tears when she finally comes to release, and he swallows her warm down his throat, wipes up the rest that drips out of the corners of his lips to suck off of his fingers. She pulls his hand from his mouth and the back of his head to her nose, kisses him slowly, roughly as she rubs him with her fingers, jerks him until he is coming across her beautiful, sloping breasts.

“Oh, oh, Brian,” she moans as he kisses her, and he continues to kiss her and kiss her until his lips turn numb, until he can no longer taste her morning breath and both of the insides of their mouths have neutralized into one singular flavor. The flavor of your own mouth, the flavor that means little to your own taste buds but everything to your mind, when you taste it in someone else.

He hums, cannot bear to whisper her name as she whispers his. He can feel her reveling in him, and it aches. He cannot imagine that she would love him as he loves her. He has no idea what she is getting up to the rest of the week, who she is meeting, who she calls after he leaves. Her eyes make him feel as if he is the only one.

_My angel:_

_I have not been writing you as often. Sometimes I think that I cannot bear it, another letter to spill my deepest thoughts only to not receive a response, by my own undoing._

_I see God in you, I see the heavens and every single Earthly thing that could ever exist. I see you in the sunrise, I feel you in the summer heat. How is it, my dearest love, that I could look at every existing thing and think of you? How is it that I am so alone, yet the thought of you fills me with such comfort and safety?_

_I love you._

_I do not know if I have said it plainly. I love you, and it is painful to imagine how the rest of my life will carry on without you by my side every single moment. Please, tell me, my angel, how I will live without a home that we share? How I will find joy in the smallest things when all the smallest things do is prompt me to think of you? I am so god forsakenly lonely._

_This must be my last letter, it is too painful to continue to dig my own grave. I hope that when I am laid to rest, you will plant many flowers across my body. I hope that you pick them, place them in your hair, set them in vases on your tables and mantle._

_And all I will do is think of you, deep in the ground._

She invites him over on a Wednesday, the phone rings right as he is coming back from the post office to deliver her letter. She sounds drunk, and he agrees to come over immediately, well, after he has showered and dressed up a little.

He wears her favorite, a linen shirt and trousers that she loves to stroke up and down, poke at his legs beneath and his stomach above. He’s gained weight since she’s been inviting him over: she pampers him as she pampers the dog. He doesn’t dare equate the two as deep, deep love. 

He hears her slurred Russian accent the moment he climbs the stairs to her top-floor apartment, through the door. She flings it open when he knocks, stuffs a bottle of vodka between his arms, and saunters back to the loveseat, drapes her body across it. One of her hands falls to the ground, where Vladimir gracefully rests, so that she can slowly scratch his long back.

“Brian. You drink that,” her Russian accent becomes stronger the more she drinks. Especially if she is drinking vodka. He wishes that she would kiss him hello, but the wrinkle between her brows is irritated, as if she’s been worrying all day long.

He drinks, sits in her usual armchair as she is taking up the only other seat in the room, bar the piano bench. How the roles have reversed, on his first visit he wouldn’t have dared even imagine being so presumptuous as to sit in her seat. Now, it feels as if he’s done it a thousand times. She groans, a daydreamy quality to her voice in the summer humidity.

“If I tell you something awfully embarrassing, will you laugh at me, _liebchen_?” she nearly whispers. His eyes widen, and then close again with how they immediately water. She has the curtains pulled back, and the sun is setting and making a big, angry orange square on the white ceiling.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he grunts. He coughs, hoping to release the frog in his throat. It seems to be permanent. Some kind of heinous bug is hissing just out of the wide window.

“Christ, I think I must be going insane,” she says, and Vladimir groans an agonized tune. She flips from her stomach to her back, in her tight-bosomed linen dress. They are matching, unplanned. Brian imagines that it would be their wedding day, in different circumstances. She doesn’t love him, but he can see the both of them sweating in a field, their parents behind them, the priest droning on and on amidst the tall grasses.

He waits patiently, devotedly, as he has waited for a reply to the letters. Completely unexpecting, but willing to accept anything that comes his way with open arms.

She blinks up at the ceiling, seeming to be taking the time to work herself up to speak. The sun ticks down the tiniest bit more, and the square on the ceiling turns red. Brian pulls the cord to turn on the lamp beside him.

“I haven’t received…” she begins. The big dog rolls over, and she reaches down to scratch his stomach. Brian’s fingers clench around the armrests of the chair. Her last cigarette is still smoking up to the sky in the ashtray. “I haven’t received a letter in a month.”

And then she’s swinging herself up from the loveseat and patting Vladimir’s nose with a finger so that he remains seated, stumbles as elegantly as a woman ever could over to the chest of drawers beside the piano. She opens the top, yanks hard so that her triceps twist, and then pushes down inside to pop out a wood panel.

“Brian,” she says cautiously. She is staring down at the letters. He roves his eyes across her broad shoulders, her tan back. Vladimir raises his elongated head to watch the both of them. “Brian, please.”

She turns to him, and he nods, and she steps one, two, three, to his feet where the floor creaks gently as she kneels.

“I so hoped…” she breathes, and then her head is resting in his lap, his fingers twisting in her curls. She releases a long breath against his pants. The linen of her skirt drapes over his bare feet, and her knees bump his toes.

**Author's Note:**

> liebchen -> sweetheart


End file.
